


Cincinnati, or Anywhere With You

by yodasyoyo



Series: 2000 tumblr followers celebration! (Sterek fics) [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale & Sheriff Stilinski Friendship, Getting Together, John is on a lot of medication right now mmkay, M/M, Mutual Pining, The Good Place references, confession of love, he just wants these guys to sort out their issues, oblivious boys with feeeeelings, or something, post 6b, sheriff gets shot but he's ok don't panic, so he can go back to eating his mini-muffins in peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: Somehow in the months that followed it became a regular thing: once a week they’d meet up, watch the game., drink a few beers. They'd talk shit about whichever sports team they were watching.  Then John would politely ask how Cora was doing, and Derek would ask after Stiles, and pretend that was just politeness too.Or: After Stiles joins the FBI, and the pack leave for college, Derek develops a close friendship with John Stilinski. But when he gets shot one night in the line of duty, Stiles comes rushing back to Beacon Hills, and his return reignites feelings Derek's spent a long time trying to ignore.





	Cincinnati, or Anywhere With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haildorothy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haildorothy/gifts).



> So this was written for my 2000 tumblr followers celebration! I'm only posting it to Ao3, because it's a bit long to post directly onto tumblr.
> 
> Crash-standing wrote: If you're still taking ficlet prompts can I throw out Sterek finally getting their shit together sometime post 6b? If not then just congrats on hitting the 2000 mark! :)
> 
> Hope this works for you!

It’s 3AM on a Friday when Derek gets the call; while he struggles to prise his eyes open and get his brain in gear his phone must ring about twelve times. As he gropes blindly around for it in the dark he knocks half the stuff off his nightstand, and the ringing stops before he’s managed to find it. Then it starts up again almost immediately.

 _That can’t be good,_ he thinks to himself blearily, as he finally feels the cool glass of the screen under his hand. He peers down at it, swiping to accept the call— even though it’s a number he doesn’t recognize.

“Derek?” It’s Mel’s voice, but strained and anxious; Derek can hear the bustle of people and the beep of hospital machinery in the background which doesn’t bode well at all. 

“Yeah?” He sits up, pulls the covers back, and swings his legs out of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s John. He’s been shot. They brought him in an hour ago. Can you come?”

“Yeah. Of course. Is he—?”

“He’s in surgery now. I think— I think he’s gonna be okay, but it would be good to have someone here. I’m working, so I won’t be able to stay with him and—”

Derek’s already reaching for yesterday’s t-shirt, trying to tug it over his head and hold a conversation at the same time is proving a challenge for his brain at 3AM. “Does Stiles know?”

“I tried to get through to him, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. I left a message, but—”

“I’ll be right there.”

-

Around a half hour later, Derek arrives at the hospital in a peel of rubber. He broke every speed limit to get here as quickly as he did, and Mel’s waiting for him when he arrives, wringing her hands nervously.

“He’s just out of surgery,” she says, and she’s shaking. He can see the fine tremors in her hands, but her voice is just about even, and the tilt of her chin is resolute. 

As far as Derek knows there’s never been anything romantic between her and John, just a good friendship and the kind of deep mutual respect that comes from being a single parent to kids as prone to shenanigans as Scott and Stiles. Still, she’s shaken, that much is obvious. Honestly, at the moment Derek doesn’t feel much better himself.

“What the hell happened?” he asks. “How bad is it? Do we know if he’s gonna be okay?” 

She places a hand on his arm and squeezes. Perversely, the sight of him panicking seems to have calmed her down. He can almost see the moment she clicks over into professional nurse mode. “He attended a gas station robbery gone awry. The perp shot him and took off. Fortunately the bullet missed anything vital. He lost a bit of blood, but he’s gonna be fine.” 

“You’re sure?”

“The doctor’s say he’ll make a full recovery.”

Derek’s exhales slowly, and feels a little of the tension leave him. “You manage to get in contact with Stiles yet?”

She shakes her head. “He still isn’t answering his phone, and I don’t have another number. In the end I called Rafe-” her face twists in a frown, “-and asked if he could get the message to Stiles. So, we’ll see.”

Since completing his basic FBI training Stiles has been seconded to a special team that deals specifically with the supernatural. The work takes him all over the country, and he could be anywhere, doing pretty much anything at any point. He’s notoriously tricky to get a hold of these days. 

Despite the distance, John couldn’t be more proud of him. Derek’s lost count of the number of times he’s heard him tell anyone who will listen about ‘my son, the federal agent.’

“Okay,” Derek huffs out a sigh. “Well. Shall I—”

“Yeah,” Mel says, "let me take you through.”

-

There’s nothing about being in a hospital that doesn’t hurt Derek. From the scent of fear and pain that permeates the place, to the shrill chirping of machinery. From the harsh glare of flickering lights, to the astringent antiseptic they use to clean, which is so strong he can virtually taste it on his tongue with each inhale. Hospitals are sensory overload for a wolf, and that’s without the added burden of the memories. God, he has so many memories tied up in Beacon Hills Memorial, and almost none of them are good.

Still.

He sets his jaw. His fingernails bite into his palms as he balls his hands into fists.

John needs him. He can’t back down now. He won’t.

It’s funny. Looking back he can’t quite remember how he and John got here. Sure, they’ve both been through a lot in the past few years. Weird supernatural shit. Tragedy. Shared trauma. They’ve both lost a lot. Both been reduced down to one family member who they barely ever see (Cora, in Derek’s case— he refuses to count Peter). Then there’s the sheer amount of time the two of them have invested in worrying about Stiles over the years, (not that Derek would admit that out loud, although he feels it must be obvious to anyone who’s been paying attention).

So given all that, perhaps it shouldn’t have been hugely surprising when, about two weeks after the various pack members all left for college, John had seen Derek shopping for TV dinners in the grocery store and invited him over to watch the game. 

Somehow in the months that followed it became a regular thing: Once a week they’d meet up, watch the game, drink a few beers. They'd talk shit about whichever sports team they were watching. Then John would politely ask how Cora was doing, and Derek would ask after Stiles, and pretend that was just politeness too. . 

Then one week John needed help putting up some drywall, and Derek, who’d done some construction work back in New York, volunteered to help.

Things escalated from there, and soon they were seeing each other two or three times a week. 

Derek isn’t sure what to call the connection that exists between them now. They look out for each other like friends might, but something about the age difference, and the dynamic at play makes it feel something closer to family than friendship, at least in Derek’s mind. He very carefully does not allow himself to think of John as a father figure. Derek doesn’t deserve that, and on some level he feels like that wouldn’t be fair to Stiles. Still there’s no doubt he and John have grown close.

Case in point, somewhere along the line he became John’s Beacon Hills based emergency contact, and vice versa.

Now, as he’s led into John’s hospital room and sees him lying there, pale and fragile under the harsh electric light, connected to machines Derek can’t even begin to name, he feels helplessness surge in his chest again. _Not him_ , he pleads, to any god that might be listening. _Please. Some days it feels like you’ve taken almost everyone else. Please don’t take him._

“He really is gonna be okay,” Mel says, “I promise.”

Derek nods mutely, but any relief he felt before at her words has been replaced by a slow rising tide of panic. In his mind’s eye he can see Cora lying in one of these same beds dying, and back then only the sacrifice of his Alpha powers had been able to save her. Going back further still, he remembers sitting outside a room like this on the night of the fire— while doctor’s worked on one of his young cousins who had been rescued from the blaze. Aaron didn’t make it in the end, but Derek can almost smell the charred flesh, and hear the screams, even now.

He blinks rapidly.

“Can I get you anything?” Mel takes his hand and squeezes, anchoring him to the present, and Derek, well practiced at compartmentalizing, forces the memories to the back of his mind.

“No,” Derek says. “Yes. Maybe a coffee?”

“Take a seat. I know where they keep the good stuff.” She gives his hand one last parting squeeze and is gone a moment later. Derek crosses the room and slumps into the chair by the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands.

It’s gonna be a long night. 

In the back of his mind, he has a vague notion he should try and contact Stiles. But if Mel’s already spoken to Rafe then it’s doubtful Derek will be able to do any better. Besides, he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to have his cell phone on in the hospital anyway.

Also, he isn’t sure he’d know what to say to Stiles even if he got through. Barring that one incident where Stiles had hurt his toe trying to save Derek from an FBI manhunt, they haven’t really spoken that much in the last couple years.

That’s partly circumstance, and partly a calculated decision on Derek’s part.

Stiles lives in Virginia now, and John tends to visit him, rather than expecting him to come back to Beacon Hills. 

Sure, Stiles and Derek text occasionally- normally if Stiles has some query regarding the supernatural, or werewolf lore in particular, but that’s all.

There was a time when Stiles had tried to keep in closer contact. He used to text Derek random snippets of information about his life— stuff he’d seen on the internet, or stories from work.

Derek didn’t respond to them though, and eventually Stiles stopped trying.

The truth is, enough time has passed for Derek to gain perspective on the events of the last few years, and on his feelings for Stiles in particular.

While he was living through the trauma of Peter, the Kanima, the Alpha pack, and— _he shudders thinking about it_ — the Nogitsune, he told himself that Stiles was an annoyance. A skinny, spastic kid with a mouth that wouldn’t quit who used to get up in Derek’s space and demand things. Demand his time and his attention. Demand that he do more, be more, be better. Demand that he start to give a shit about more than just surviving. Sure the wider pack had demanded that too, but Stiles, for all his fragile humanity, was the one that really seemed to understand from the beginning what pack meant. Stiles was the one who kept showing up to help when Derek was in trouble, and the one whose life Derek had to save again and again, as Stiles threw himself in the line of danger for his friends' sake, with little more than sarcasm and a baseball bat to defend himself.

From almost the first moment that they met, Stiles’ mere existence demanded that Derek move beyond the anger and depression that consumed him for so long, and forced him to start to care again.

And Derek did care. That was the big secret. The kernel of self-knowledge, that he fought against. The realization that dawned slowly and horrifically over those few hellish years when it felt like Beacon Hills was less a town, and more a war zone. Derek cared about the rag-tag pack. He cared about Beacon Hills. And especially, _specifically,_ he cared about Stiles. More than was probably appropriate, and certainly more than Stiles would have wanted, given his Lydia Martin infatuation.

Sure, according to John, Stiles and Lydia broke up eighteen months ago, but even now Derek is under no illusions. Whatever feelings he harbors for Stiles, he has no expectations that they will ever be returned. 

So.

Cutting all but the most essential contact had been a defense mechanism. Self preservation. Stiles isn’t going to come back to Beacon Hills, let alone suddenly discover long repressed feelings for an emotionally crippled werewolf, six years older than him, who has enough baggage to fill a train car. 

Besides— Derek learned a long time ago: The people he loves get hurt. They suffer. They die. So better not to admit to it. Better not to give the world ammunition Better to keep the ones he loves at arm’s length, for their own protection.

Lifting his head, he stares at the bed. At John.

Yeah. He really shoulda known better.

-

It’s nearly 6AM when John finally comes around, whatever drugs they had him on post surgery must have been good. 

Derek’s been dozing lightly in the chair, neck cricked at an awkward angle, but he’s hyper attuned to John’s heartbeat now, and he notices the tell tale signs: The bitter sharp tang of fear and pain in the air, the way John’s heart rate speeds up slightly as he regains consciousness. 

Derek leans forward, hands clasped before him, watching John’s face as his eyes flutter open.

“Hey,” he says.

John’s mouth works a little. “Hey,” he says eventually, voice hoarse, lips cracked and sore. “M’not dead then?”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“Hah.” John winces. “Don’ make me laugh. Feel like I got—” he trails off, his breathing ragged.

“Shot in the chest?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“It was exactly like that.”

John’s eyes search the room, he’s looking for something. Someone.

“Stiles is on his way.” Derek hopes that’s true. The FBI should have found a way to contact him by now, and he can’t imagine a world where Stiles wouldn’t face down hell itself to get to his dad if he were in trouble.

John nods. “‘K. Good. Thanks.” 

“It was Melissa, she— ” He doesn’t even get to finish the sentence. As Derek watches, John slips back into sleep.

-

The door to the room flies open at about 9AM, and Derek startles from where he’d been dozing in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, surrounded by half drunk cups of coffee and empty candy wrappers.

“Dad! Holy shit, Dad.” Stiles is standing in the doorway wild eyed. His brown hair greasy, half plastered to his head like he slept on it, and half sticking up like he’s been running in his hands through it. He’s pale as a ghost, and the marks like bruises under his eyes, suggest he’s slept even less than Derek. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my— Derek? What are you doing here?” He takes a half step back in surprise.

“Hey.” Derek gets to his feet awkwardly. “Hey. I’m— He’s alright. He’s going to be okay.”

“He’s not okay! He’s been shot.” Regaining momentum, Stiles stumbles into the room. He smells like sweat and stress, his heart is hammering in his chest, to Derek it sounds like the loudest thing in the room. “Fuck. I can’t. I can’t believe it. It’s like every nightmare I ever had as a kid.”

“Here,” Derek gets up and starts to pick up the candy wrappers and coffee cups, putting them in the trash. “Sit down. I’ll—”

“No. I can’t. I—” Stiles starts to pace the room. “Tell me everything. Everything. I need to know.”

“Well—” Derek recites the little he knows about the robbery. The shooting. The injury itself. “--That’s all they’ve told me so far,” he says. “I came in around three. He woke up once, a couple hours ago, but he’s mostly slept.”

“Right,” Stiles says, still pacing the room, and running his fingers through his hair. “Right. That’s great. Well. Not great. Because my dad’s been shot, but it isn’t as bad as—” He exhales heavily and stops, he looks utterly exhausted. “I spent the whole plane ride from Michigan convinced he was gonna die, but he’s—”

“He’s gonna be fine,” Derek says. He wants to reach out and touch. To draw Stiles into his arms and hug him tight. It’s amazing how strong that urge is after all this time. But it isn’t right. It isn’t his place. It never has been. “Hey,” he says, taking a step closer— because he’s too weak to deny himself that much, at least. “Mel said the doctors think he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Right,” Stiles shoulder’s sag, but more with defeat than relief. “God. I fucking hate this place.”

It’s instinct that has Derek taking another step closer. He reaches out a hand and places it lightly on Stiles’ arm without even thinking. “Me too. But your dad is gonna be fine. I swear.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, staring at him, with wide, tired eyes. “Yeah. okay.” His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, but he holds Derek’s gaze a long moment. “Okay. Thank-you. For— For being here when he needed someone. That was really good of you.”

At that Derek drops Stiles’ arm and steps back. “It was nothing.”

“It was a lot. It means a lot. To him. To me. I shoulda been here. It should’ve been me. I’m never around any more, and I pretend it’s okay, and then something like this happens and--”

“You were working.”

“But—”

“You got here as soon as you could. Your dad understands that.”

“I should’ve been the one here when he woke up.”

“You will be this time.”

“Right.” The sour stench of guilt is rolling off him in waves.

“Just sit down,” Derek says, waving at the chair. “I’ll go get you a drink. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I— Yeah. Ok.”

“Coffee?”

“Black. Two sugars.”  
  
“You want food?”  
  
Stiles makes a face. “I don’t think I’ll keep it down.”

-

When Derek returns with the drink, John’s awake and Stiles is leaning over the bed, clutching his dad’s hand, speaking in a low voice. “-- I spoke to my boss, and they said I can take a couple of weeks while you recover, and I have a couple weeks vacation owing, too. So that’s maybe a month. I can stay with you and--”

“You don’t need to do that, son.”

“I do. I really, really do.”

“But—”

“You could’ve died, Dad.”

“I lost a bit of blood. It wasn’t that bad.”

“It could have been. I get to be worried, and I get to take care of you. That’s how this works.”

“But you have that big case—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does! Derek can—”

“No! I’m your son!”

Derek flinches, and nearly trips over a trailing wire from a machine he doesn’t know the name of. Both Stilinski’s look round immediately.

“Hey,” Derek says, holding up the cup of coffee. “I brought— I’ll just—”

“Uh-thanks,” Stiles says, but he seems as incapable of looking directly at Derek, his gaze fixed just over Derek’s shoulder.

“I’ll give you guys some privacy,” says Derek.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, just as John says, “No, it’s fine.”

The Stilinskis look between each other in silent conversation, before Stiles turns back to Derek. “You should stay,” Stiles says quickly. His cheeks are a splotchy pink, his mouth a tight line. 

“I think—” begins Derek.

“Actually, neither of you should stay. You both look like shit,” the Sheriff rasps. “I’ll be fine. I just want to sleep, and by the looks of it, so do both of you.”

“I’m not leaving,” Stiles says mulishly. “I only just got here.”

“Have you even eaten an actual meal?” his dad asks. “When was the last time you slept?”

“When was the last time you took a bullet to the chest?” Stiles snaps back. “Jesus, dad, priorities. I’m not leaving.”

-

In the end they stay for another hour or so, and then Derek offers to drive Stiles back to his dad’s house to get some sleep, and Stiles reluctantly accepts.

He’s quiet on the way home. Unnaturally still, too, except for the way he drums his index finger against his thigh. Derek has to squash the urge to reach over, grab his hand, and make him stop. 

It’s only when Derek pulls into the Stilinski’s driveway, and switches the engine off, that Stiles finally speaks. Turning to Derek he takes a deep breath and says, “I’ve been so jealous of you, you know that?”

“Me?” Derek blinks.

“He talks about you all the time. Can’t shut up about how great you are. Derek came over to watch the game last night. Derek made heart healthy lasagna and it actually tasted _good_. Derek helped me repair the roof. I know it’s stupid but—” He lets out a shaky sigh. “I felt like—”

“Like I was trying to replace you?”

Stiles flinches. “A little. I mean— after my mom died it was just the two of us, you know? Me and my dad. And then there was Scott, and then the whole werewolf thing happened, and I met you, and we had our mutual jackasses, who pretend to hate each other, but save each other’s lives on the reg anyway because we love each other really schtick—”

Derek swallows, and says nothing.

“--and then I join the freakin’ FBI and the pack split up and went to college, and then. Then. Suddenly the last couple years, every Skype call it’s Derek, Derek, Derek. I swear the only reason I’ve not seen you at our place for Christmas is because—”

“I’m with Cora.”

“I know. I know. I feel like a heel.” Stiles says, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I resented you, even if you didn’t know it until now. That was shitty of me. When I saw you there with him today I was just— I was so fucking grateful that he had someone. Jealous, but grateful.”

“I swear I’m not trying to replace you.” Derek says, hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. He talks about you all the time. We— You’re— Trust me 80% of our conversation is about you.” Stiles shoots a glance at him then, curious, and Derek feels panic swirl in his gut. He’s said too much. If he grips the steering wheel any tighter it’s going to buckle, instead he takes a deep breath and tries for a smile. “Well,” he says, “You, and the Met’s current losing streak.” That’s close enough to the truth.

Stiles snorts, and rolls his eyes.

“Seriously Stiles, you’re everything to him. He’s so proud. So--”

“I know. I know it. I just—” Stiles rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes. “It was stupid.”

Derek shakes his head. “No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it—”

“No.”

“Geez, you’re so fucking contrary. Just like old times, huh?”

“I know what it’s like to have one family member left, Stiles.” Derek points out. “And I think it’s okay to feel a little territorial. Especially when they’ve been hurt.”

“Right. Shit. Sorry.” Stiles scrunches his eyes shut, scent turning sour. When he opens them again he turns in his seat to face Derek. “Jesus. It’s like whenever I’m around you I can’t stop myself saying exactly the wrong thing.”

“You didn’t say the wrong thing.”

“Yes I—”

“No you didn’t. Will you quit arguing with me?”

Stiles glares, he’s biting the inside of his cheek and the expression on his face suggests he doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “It’s really annoying when you’re right,” he says eventually.

Derek pretends to consider. “Wow. I must be annoying all the time.”

“Ha! Well sixteen year old me definitely used to find you annoying constantly, but not because of that.”

“Oh _you_ thought _I_ was annoying back then? Did you meet sixteen year old you?”

“I was a fucking delight! And trust me you were plenty annoying, among other things.” Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“Other things?”

At that Stiles flushes an uneven pink again. “Shut up. Don’t make me say it, Derek. Jesus. We have an unspoken agreement about this shit.”

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but Derek’s losing his grip on this conversation fast. He grits out, “Whatever. I’ve never been able to make you do anything.”

“Lies! You’re the only one who—” Stiles cuts himself off, and holds up a hand. “Fine. Let’s just say we were both dicks back then, but you were a bigger one.”

Derek smirks— and Stiles jabs a finger in his direction. “If you make a joke about having a big dick right now, I swear to god—”

Derek holds his hands up. “I guess it’s lucky we’ve both grown as people since then,” he says instead.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Stiles settles back in the passenger seat. Both of them are silent for a long moment. Stiles’ eyes drift to his old family home, and then back to Derek.

“You gonna be okay?” Derek says, after a beat when Stiles doesn’t make a move to get out the car.

“Yeah. Sure.” Stiles sinks further into his seat.

“Are—”

“I just don’t want to be alone, okay?” Stiles says, all in a rush. “When my mom was dying it felt like I spent half my time waiting around this place to hear bad news, and the other half watching her suffer at the hospital, and I guess I’m just—” his lifts his hands and then drops them back in his lap helplessly.

“You want me to stay for a bit?”

“Would you?” The look he shoots Derek is pathetically grateful.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“That would be--ugh— really great of you.”

“Well, I’ve grown as a person, remember?”

“Dick,” Stiles says, punching him lightly on the arm, but he’s smiling, and Derek is too.

-

“So how’s life in the FBI?” Derek asks, once Stiles has let them in. Almost as soon as Stiles had walked through the door his stomach had gurgled noisily, and so now Derek’s standing in the kitchen frying bacon, ready to make some BLT’s.

“Stressful.” Stiles is perched on the kitchen counter watching Derek cook. Reaching out, he sneaks a piece of bacon out of the pan, wincing as it burns his fingers. Derek slaps him across the back of the hand with the tongs. “Ouch. Heeeey!”

“Serves you right.”

Stiles blows on the bacon to cool it, and then stuffs it into his mouth.

“Why stressful?” Derek asks.

“Busy, I guess. And the department is underfunded. And understaffed. The work is interesting though, y'know, when it’s not abjectly terrifying. Plus I like the team.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How’s life as a creature of the night in Beacon Hills?”

Derek shrugs. “Pretty good. I got a job.”

“Yeah, my Dad mentioned that. Forest ranger, huh?”

“Yup.”

“You enjoy it?”

“Very much.” Derek uses the tongs to flip bacon onto a waiting plate.

“You uh— you get a uniform with that?”

“Yeah,” Derek chances a glance at him. “Why?”

“Just wondered,” Stiles says, and grabs another strip of bacon before Derek can stop him.

—

They sit on the couch to eat their food. Stiles puts the TV on and they watch Teen Titans Go together, with the volume on low, although neither of them are really paying attention to it, they're both too tired, or perhaps too distracted by thoughts of John.

“Dad moved the armchair,” Stiles says eventually, through a bite of his BLT. “And that picture on the wall over there used to be different. God, I knew something had changed, but I couldn’t work out what. It’s been driving me crazy for the last ten minutes.”

Derek follows the line of Stiles’ gaze. Both those changes were made about six months ago, but he senses it won’t be helpful to point that out to Stiles now. 

“You should get some sleep,” he says instead, as he watches Stiles finish the last of his sandwich.

“I know,” Stiles places his now empty plate on the coffee table and slumps back on the couch. “I don’t know if I can though. I’m still too wired.”

“Yeah,” Derek places his own plate next to Stiles’ one and leans back next to him, their shoulders are almost touching, but not quite. “I get that.”

Stiles turns his head slightly to look at him and blinks, owlishly. “I really am glad you’re here, Derek.” 

“Yeah.”

“I—” Stiles yawns. “I missed it, y’know.” His head lolls to the side almost resting on Derek’s shoulder, but not quite.

“Missed what?” Derek asks quietly.

“This. Being around pack I guess, and, y’know— us.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Us. Don’t pretend there was never an ‘us’,” he mutters. His head sinks on to Derek’s shoulder, and despite the bone-deep exhaustion and all the stress of the last twelve hours, Derek feels something click into place in his chest. 

“Right,” he says, leaning his cheek against Stiles’ slightly greasy hair. “Us. Yeah.”

“‘Xactly,” Stiles slurs, as his breathing evens out and he drifts off to sleep. “Us.”

-

When Derek wakes it’s to find late afternoon sun shining through the window, illuminating the room with a syrupy golden glow. Somehow, in sleep, he and Stiles have ended up lying on the couch, Stiles mostly on top of Derek, one of his thighs slotted in the ‘V’ of Derek’s legs, his back pressed up against the back of the couch, an arm slung across Derek’s chest. His head is resting on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek can feel Stiles’ breath damp against his skin on each exhale.

He allows himself one moment to press his nose in to Stiles’ hair and breathe in the pure, undiluted scent of him, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmmmwhattimeissit?” Stiles slurs, and Derek stills completely. _Busted._

“I-uh.” He lets his head thud back on to the arm of the couch. “Don’t know. I only just woke up—”

Stiles turns his head to look at Derek, so his chin is resting on Derek’s chest. “Hey,” he says softly.

Derek swallows. “Hey.”

“Good nap.” Stiles yawns.

“Yeah.”

“Ten out of ten, would nap on again.” He pushes himself up a little, so he’s taking his weight on one hand. “You make a surprisingly comfortable bed, and a great BLT.”

“Yeah, well, make sure you leave me a good review on AirBNB.”

Stiles raises one eyebrow and smirks. “I don’t know. If I leave a bad one, then it’ll stay my little secret. I’ll be the only one who knows.” He taps his finger against the side of his nose. “No competition if I need to use your services again.”

“I--uh.”

“Oh shit!” Stiles reaches into the pocket of his pants and retrieved his phone. “It’s three o’clock? Already? Oh my god. My dad is gonna think I’ve abandoned him.”

“Or he’ll think you caught up on some much needed sleep. Besides, Mel’s probably been into see him, and the guys at the station.”

Stiles isn’t listening though. “Should I have a shower and change my clothes _then_ wrangle an Uber? Or maybe I should just go? I should go—”

“I’ll give you a ride back to the hospital.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. You should shower and change first, though.”

“But-”

“Your dad will thank-you,” Derek says, “And so will I.”

“Dick!” Stiles slaps his chest. 

“Yeah, big dick, you mentioned already.” Derek says, with a smirk.

And just like that Stiles is flushing pink again. “Asshole,” he mutters. “Fine. I’ll have a _quick_ shower, but then we have to go.”

“No problem.”

-

Derek drives them both to the hospital, but he doesn’t park his car, just pulls up outside.

“You could come in,” Stiles says, as he unbuckles his seat belt. “I don’t mind, and Dad will want to see you.”

“You spend some time alone with him and catch up,” Derek says. “I’ll come back at seven.”

“Seven?”

“I’m gonna go back to my place and have a shower too, get some fresh clothes.” It’s kind of an excuse to give Stiles space with his dad, but has the added benefit of being true. 

“Shoot. Yeah, okay.” Stiles bites his lip. “Thanks.”

“No problem, just call me if you need anything. Or if your dad—”

“You’ll be the first one to know if we need anything,” Stiles promises. “Scouts honor.” He raises his hand, pinky tucked under the thumb, middle three fingers raised.

“You have never been a scout.”

“I could have been.”

Derek arches an eyebrow.

“Fine. I was a scout for like a week, and then they banned me for calling the scoutmaster a fucking homophobe.”

Derek grins at him. “I bet they did.”

“He deserved it.”

“I have no doubt.”

-

When Derek arrives at the hospital that evening, he finds John looks a lot better than he had even this morning. True, he’s still pale, and currently asleep, but his skin had lost some of that sallow waxiness, and he’s breathing is easier. 

Stiles is sitting in the chair next to him, and he looks up as Derek comes in. “Hey!” he says, getting to his feet.

“Hey, how is he?” Derek asks, in a whisper. 

“Good, I think?” Stiles crosses the room and stands next to him. In a low voice he continues, “The doctor’s came to see him, and they seemed happy with his progress. Jordan came by with a couple of the guys from the station earlier. I think it wore him out.”

“Right.” Derek jams his hands in the pocket of his jeans, and looks around the room awkwardly. “They brought chess?” he says, eyeing the chess set tucked on the window sill next to a bouquet of flowers and a couple of foil balloons that say ‘Get Well Soon’ in garish colors. 

“Yeah. Although I think it’s gonna be awhile before dad can play it.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Derek shuffles foot to foot, and Stiles scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“Do you want a drink?” Stiles says, just as Derek says. “Can I get you some food?”

They both huff out a laugh.

“I’m fine,” Stiles says. “The guys at the station brought a basket of mini-muffins, so--”

“Ah. Wouldn’t want your dad to eat them.” Derek smiles.

“Exactly,” Stiles nods. “You get it. I’m helping him by eating them. It all comes from a place of love. Did you--uh, want one--? I hid them from my dad, but I could--”

“I’m fine.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

It’s been two years, but Stiles looks different in a million subtle ways that Derek can’t quite pinpoint and yet, underneath it all, he's still very much Stiles. His hands are still strong and capable; his shoulders, that were always broad under the layers of plaid, seem broader somehow; his eyes are still that rich shade of brown; his mouth is still perfectly pink and this close, if Derek leaned in right now he could—

“You two gonna moon at each other all day?” 

They spring apart immediately, and Stiles wheels around to face his dad. “You!” he says, shaking a finger. “You promised, you—”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s a guy who whose been shot gotta do to get a glass of water round here?”

“I’ll refill the pitcher,” Stiles says. “You—” He flattens his mouth in a thin line and waves a finger at his dad. “Don’t make trouble. I’m serious”

John lifts his hands weakly, clearly meant to imply, ‘Who? Me?’ And Stiles scowls, but he strides over to his dad’s nightstand, picks up the plastic pitcher and then stalks out of the room. 

“So,” John rasps.

“Hey.” Derek proffers him a small smile. “How are you—”

“Let's get down to business. When are you gonna ask him out?”

“Uhhhh. What—?”

“I got shot less than 24hrs ago. Don’t make me speak more than I absolutely have to, Derek.”

“Stiles doesn’t—”

“Oh he does.”

“I don’t—”

“Except you do. Don’t lie to me, son. This past two years you were my sure thing. I thought I might have to work on Stiles, but it turns out he’s just as gone on you, as you are on him.”

“Uh—” 

“So you might as well make a move." He gives Derek a wide-eyed look. "After all, who knows how much time I have left, and it’d sure make an old man happy to see his only son settled—” 

“You’re the devil,” Derek says flatly.

John grins. “Naw. But I have it on good authority that he makes work for idle hands. And it turns out I’m gonna have a lot of time on mine. Ensuring you two get your head out of your respective asses is number one on my to do list.”

"Me and Stiles haven’t spoken in years,” Derek protests.

“Please. You ask about him every week with hearts in your eyes. I figured it was all one sided, and then I finally get Stiles to talk about it today, and he tells me he’s been pining for you forever.”

“That’s— I can’t just—”

“It’s a dying man’s last wish,” John says, blinking up at him, with big eyes, as he somehow manages to shrink into the bed. “Are you really gonna deny the wish of a dying man?”

“You were shot, you’re not dying. You’re gonna be fine.”

“We’re all dying, son, so jot that down. You might wanna make good use of the time that you have. Besides,” he scowls. “If he's distracted by you, he’s not gonna be eating my goddamn mini-muffins.”

-

When Stiles gets back with the water, the three of them very carefully talk about anything else, from sports, to what the various McCall pack members are currently up to.

Around nine, John starts to flag again. “I’m tired,” he yawns widely. “You should go home, and get some rest.”

“But I want to stay—” Stiles begins.

“What are you gonna do, sit in that shitty chair all night and watch me sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What if something happens?”

“Then the hospital will call you. But nothing’s going to happen. Go home, get a proper night’s sleep. Come by first thing tomorrow. Derek’ll drive you. You’ll do that, won’t you Derek?”

Derek nods.

“And when you come back tomorrow bring me my toothbrush, and my good pajamas. I don’t like this hospital gown it’s open at the back, and when they take me to the bathroom tomorrow, my ass is gonna hang out for the world to see.”

“You’ll probably be in a wheelchair if they try and move you, Dad.”

“So my bare ass is gonna be sticking to a wheelchair. Great.”

“Why aren’t you wearing underwear in this scenario?” Derek asks.

John's eyes narrow. “Just go get a good night’s sleep, and bring me my good pajamas.” He pauses. “And spare underwear.”

“Ugh, fine.”

-

“I don’t want to go back to the fucking house,” Stiles says, as soon as he and Derek are sitting in the Camaro twenty minutes later.

“We’ll drive to your dad’s place, pick up the stuff he wants, and anything you need. Then you can come back to my place,” Derek says, after a beat.

Stiles turns to look at him, lips parted in surprise. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I’m sure.”

-

“You moved out of the loft?” Stiles says, when they pull up in front of Derek’s apartment building, later that evening.

“A couple of years back-- it didn’t feel right to stay there after everything that happened.”

“That makes sense.”

His new place (or new to Stiles at least) is smaller, but brighter, with brilliant white walls which reflect the light that streams in through big airy windows. The view of Beacon Hills is actually pretty spectacular.

“I like it better,” Stiles says, immediately, looking around with interest. “Oooh, a bookcase. Derek Hale, bookworm. Who’da thunk?” He scuttles off to take a look at Derek’s book collection as Derek heads into the kitchen.

“You want anything to drink?” he calls.

“Nah. You read The Long Earth?” Stiles appears in the doorway a book clutched in his hand, which he waves in Derek’s general direction.

Derek winces. “I haven’t, yet.”

“I saw that flinch,” Stiles says gleefully. “That’s the flinch of a man who spends a whole lotta time buying books he never reads.”

There’s more truth to that then Derek would like to admit. “You too, huh?” he guesses.

“So many books. And I never have any time to read them. Although I have a Kindle, so it isn’t as obvious,” Stiles smirks at him.

“Jeff Bezos is the devil,” Derek says, sourly. 

“Paper books are terrible for the environment,” Stiles retorts, leaning against the door jamb. “So I guess we’re both headed to the bad place.”

Derek’s eyes flick to him, and away. “Nah,” he says. “You’ll end up in the good place, for sure.”

Stiles straightens up, frowning. “But you think if there is one, you won’t?”

“I don’t—” Derek scowls. This conversation has taken a sudden and unexpected turn. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does,” Stiles walks forwards until he’s standing directly in front of Derek, right in his space. “I don’t particularly believe in any of this shit, but I’m gonna tell you something right now, Derek Hale, and you better listen: If a version of the good place or heaven or whatever you wanna call it does exist, then you deserve to be there.” He tilts his chin obstinately. “And if they don’t accept you, then I’m sure as hell not going either.”

“I—” Derek swallows; his heart feels full. “You wanna spend eternity in Cincinnati with me?”

“Are you offering?”

Derek wets his lips. “What if I am?”

“Then I say yes.”

“Yes? Just like that?”

Stiles laughs, high and a little hysterical. “I’ve been crazy in love with you since I was sixteen, jackass. I don’t know how you missed it. This last couple years I thought I was finally getting over you, but then I came back here and found you looking out for my dad, and—” He runs a hand through his hair. “God. Yes. If it isn’t completely fucking obvious. Yes I would spend eternity with you in the good place, or the bad place, which I’m pretty sure is Beacon Hills by the way. I would spend eternity in any medium place you care to name including Cincinnati, as long as it meant I was there with you. Although once you were there, Derek, it could never be described as medium again.”

“Same,” Derek says, when he finally finds his voice again.

“Same?”

“What you just said. Same. About you.”

“That’s it. I make that amazing fucking speech confessing all my long repressed feelings and you say ‘same?’”

“Ditto?”

Stiles throws his hands up in the air like he’s about to begin another long rant, and Derek doesn’t hesitate. Just steps straight forward, wraps him in his arms, and kisses him.

When they finally break apart, Stiles is smiling, huge and happy, and Derek is sure his own face must look the same.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, immediately, “My dad is gonna be insufferable.”

Spoiler Alert: The next morning when they visit the hospital hand in hand, he totally is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, if you felt like leaving comments or kudos on this fic then I'm eternally grateful to you! You guys, as always, are the true MVP's :-)
> 
> Also you can find me on [tumblr,](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/) :D
> 
> P.s. I feel like the ditto line comes from something???? But I have no idea what????
> 
> P.P.S. for those who haven't watched The Good Place, Cincinnati is an example of a 'medium place' where people who aren't bad enough for the bad place (hell), or good enough for the good place (heaven), deserve to go


End file.
